Camion

D. Cairns D.

Description

This story, The Camion, is based upon a letter published in the Irish Daily Mail in September 2010. Its characters, events and experiences have taken place in actual homeless units both in the United Kingdom and France. The author was upon assignment in London to research a manuscript that he was in the middle of constructing, and needed help from the local community in order to achieve this end. He does find help from the eventual hero of the story, an African man named Wole, who turns out to be an illegal immigrant residing here in New Cross, London, SE14. Our hero Wole, it is to be found, has a complete fascination with anything concerning lorries, which is derived from his economical/environmental upbringing in Nigeria. But a violent incident involving a fellow homeless man, who also inhabits the homeless unit in SE14, sees Wole make a hurried departure toward France, afraid of deportation back to Nigeria by British authorities; but unknown to him, the author is hot on his heels in pursuit. Wole, as the story unfolds, manages to achieve his dream of becoming a long distant lorry driver here in Europe, and also finds the real love of his life in Connie, who happens to be an international businesswoman, and who assists in helping him achieve this dream by sponsoring him into the transportation business. The author too, happens to find love within the story, by falling in love with his French teacher Maud; while extending his research into the use of cultural idiom, which he argues, is better perceived within its philosophical context by an individual's willingness to accept suffering. With this acceptance therefore, comes a closer comprehension to the spiritual side of one's life, and where wisdom and enlightenment may bring the individual into the realms of a more positive, contented and fulfilling lifetime experience. Finally, Wole and the author eventually meet up in a bar in Marseille with some of the story's other characters, yet waiting for them at the end of this story is a twist, and a sting in the tail for one of those characters; but whose tail is waiting to be stung; is it the author's?!

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 10 octobre 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780722347072
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Camion
D. D. Cairns
ARTHUR H. STOCKWELL LTD
Torrs Park, Ilfracombe, Devon, EX34 8BA
Established 1898
www.ahstockwell. co.uk




2016 digital version converted and published by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© D. D. Cairns, 2016
First published in Great Britain, 2016
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright holder.



An Overview
This story, The Camion , is based upon a letter published in the Irish Daily Mail in September 2010, and can be read as prologue. Its characters, events and experiences have taken place in actual homeless units both in the United Kingdom and France. The author was upon assignment in London to research a manuscript that he was in the middle of constructing, and needed help from the local community in order to achieve this end. He does find help from the eventual hero of the story, an African man named Wole, who turns out to be an illegal immigrant residing here in New Cross, London, SE14. Our hero Wole, it is to be found, has a complete fascination with anything concerning lorries, which is derived from his economical/environmental up bringing in Nigeria. But a violent incident involving a fellow homeless man, who also inhabits the homeless unit in SE14, sees Wole make a hurried departure toward France, afraid of deportation back to Nigeria by British authorities; but unknown to him, the author is hot on his heels in pursuit. Wole, as the story unfolds, manages to achieve his dream of becoming a long distant lorry driver here in Europe, and also finds the real love of his life in Connie, who happens to be an international businesswoman, and who assists in helping him achieve this dream by sponsoring him into the transportation business. The author too, happens to find love within the story, by falling in love with his French teacher Maud; while extending his research into the use of cultural idiom, which he argues, is better perceived within its philosophical context by an individual’s willingness to accept suffering. With this acceptance therefore, comes a closer comprehension to the spiritual side of one’s life, and where wisdom and enlightenment may bring the individual into the realms of a more positive, contented and fulfilling lifetime experience. Finally, Wole and the author eventually meet up in a bar in Marseille with some of the story’s other characters, yet waiting for them at the end of this story is a twist, and a sting in the tail for one of those characters; but whose tail is waiting to be stung; is it the authors?!




“I am the love that dare not speak its name.”
Lord Alfred Douglas.



Prologue
I, too, am one of the many who have been homeless (Mail) and look back on my experience as an education, a journey, a spiritual awakening.
We walked the banks of the Seine and the Liffey by night and had to face the challenges that mainstream society never offers us, to find adequate shelter, to seek out individuals who are experiencing difficulties that are similar to my own, to find a decent meal, to rest safely.
These challenges are the basic skills we humans have in our survival kit, and it’s great to have to rekindle these natural, dormant, innate emotions and put them to the test.
The charities that operate the hostels are funded by taxpayers, as well as the drop in centres and free dinner places. People are employed full-time and this supports the merry go around or ‘normal living’.
I wouldn’t change my experience of homelessness for the world. I’ve cleaned boats on the Cote d’Azur, and received wonderful generosity from people I never even known.
In my experience of life, there would be untold people ready and willing to give generously to people who are need of something.
D. D. Cairns.
Irish Daily Mail , 21.09.10



Chapter One
A wet house is a term used to describe a homeless hostel where alcohol is allowed to be consumed. In this particular wet house however, there were no locks upon the doors, in fact, anyone could just walk into your room completely uninvited. You could also see signs of physical damage behind some of these doors as well, for many of them have looked as if they had been used as battering blocks for feet and fists in the past in order to vent frustrations. My door handle always felt grubby and grimy upon touch, even after cleaning, it still felt grubby and grimy upon touch. The room always seemed to smell of stale tobacco and dampness, for the stale smoky air hung and hovered like an unseen cloud that clung to every fibre of the wall. Once these walls had been painted in bright light colours, but now had faded drab and dreary, for the walls themselves had been decorated in personalized subjective graffiti. Names, dates and hates, along with other various negative inscriptions, which only personified to me that of troubled minds, of where only one positive inscription was worth remembering. Night times are the worst here in this wet house, because you can hear things at night. For you could just make out the faint sob of sadness, the whimpering of a child, or the sound of lovemaking; you can hear things at night here in this wet house.
Our teacher once told our class, that when men and women go to prison they cry, they all cry, not about the incarnation mind, but about how their lives have eventually turned out; this must be like prison, I have never been to prison before in my life, but still, this must be like prison. The corridors at night times are the worst in some of these places, for they frightened me; I’m a grown man, but still, they frighten me. Disturbed minds can create disturbed emotions, and where sometimes you may see the distant shadows of shady silhouettes dwelling in darkened corners. At night times they seem to play, for these lonely shadows have now exaggerated themselves into grotesque shapes by their exposure to poor lighting, that in turn, throw creepy horrible shadows that sliver and slide down lifeless walls; homeless hostels can be frightening places! Some people see this experience as a journey, ‘You’ve had the good times; now you have the bad.’ A way of getting to know yourself ‘You’ll find yourself in here’; or something spiritual, ‘The more you cut a diamond, the brighter it shines’. Yet, for many of the charity organizations that work our streets, they tend to come from a religious background and so, in turn, run their own individual charities accordingly to their own individual moral beliefs. To me it felt like being lost between two worlds, which seemed to run directly parallel to one another; the world of the needy, juxtaposing that of the needed. A philosophical world, submerged in social idiom and home spun philosophies, which never seem to be fully understood nor grounded, in order to tap into the rich vein of spirituality that weaves its way through them like a golden thread through our own sub-conscious. Outside the window of my room I could just make out the faint conversation of male voices; I was to hear many conversations of male voices here in this wet house.
“A pound an hour for labouring work, now that’s absolutely bang out of order, this is 2016 not 1816!” groaned Sparky, now trying to steady himself upon hearing such absurdity.
“Well that includes food and some drinks Sparks,” added Murphy, now trying unconvincingly to do some justice toward the manipulation that was now taking place here in this wet house, what with a smirking grin and the shrug of his shoulders.
Sparky just stood there staring at him blankly, completely unmoved by the suggestion, but most of all, bewildered upon how his roommate could defend such morality. Upon noticing Sparky’s tenseness, Murphy tried to smooth matters over by offering his roommate a swig of his cider, to dampen down the outrage that he could now see rising within Sparky’s blotched complexion.
“What drinks would they be then?” moaned Sparky tiredly, as he began to gulp down a generous amount of Murphy’s extra strength cider, or more commonly known within this area as the ‘Electric soup’!
Summer had just arrived here to this multicultural street here in South East London, which is hidden away behind tiny parks and leafy lanes, of New Cross, SE14. This particular street is lined and dotted with various beech and maple trees, and where, we see low bricked terraced garden walls displaying various coloured plants, that personify their owners’ own indigenous cultures. The intensive roar of the Old Kent Road seems a million miles away from here, only the odd passing of a lorry, or the rattle of a distant train, breaking bird song silence.
This 1950s terraced house was originally designed with three bedrooms, but had now been converted into six. The house was under refurbishment Mustafa the Turk style, and where the old working kitchen interior had been removed for renovation some five weeks prior, and as of now, had not been replaced. This had given rise to tensions within the household, and so therefore, quarrels had broken out among the tenants, due to the very fact they had nowhere else to cook, or even to clean their cooking utensils after finishing with their cooking. The two Nigerian tenants Rotti and Akeba who occupied the roof space, were both outraged about the total lack of respect that was being shown to them by the landlord, in regards basic human decency, that they felt was not only being displayed to them as individuals, but also toward all the other tenants that were also living here in the wet house in New Cross, SE14. For t